Sherlock Holmes Meets a Kitten
by TeaCoffeeBooks
Summary: It was a cat. Well, to be more precise, a kitten. A very small one. With whiskers and everything. "What is the meaning of this?" Demanded Sherlock. "It's a cat." Replied John simply.


**Author's Note****: Ciao, my dear readers! This sort of popped into my head, and since my best friend was indisposed and not available for fangirling, it sort of just wrote itself.**

***_PLEASE NOTE_***

**-First _Sherlock_ fic. Ever. **

**-Really have no idea where on Earth this would fit in in regards to any sort of timeline.**

**-Not necessarily Johnlock, but if you want to interpret it that way, then by all means go for it!**

**-Not meant to be taken seriously.**

_**Enjoy!**_

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was sprawled across the long couch in his shared flat at 221B Baker Street, hardly focused on whichever program was on the telly. He had his ears on the alert for his phone, should someone – _anyone_ – contact him with a case.

He really was quite bored.

Really, _really_ bored.

Honestly, why couldn't something exciting happen? Like a murder? Preferably under mysterious circumstances? London is a big city. Surely there must be _someone_ with homicidal intentions nearby..?

Sherlock let out a small cry when he felt a sudden _something_ on his person. His well-trained reflexes reacting, he prepared for physical combat while mentally trying to locate the nearest available weapon. Pushing himself up slightly to get a better view of his attacker, however, Sherlock paused.

It was a cat.

Well, to be more precise, a kitten.

A very small one. With whiskers and everything.

"What the hell..?" Sherlock stared at the infant cat which was unsteadily crawling its way up to his torso.

"Oh, hello!" came a cheery voice. Sherlock turned and found his entirely too happy flatmate grinning at him.

Sherlock gestured to the small creature which was now sniffing at the buttons on his purple shirt. "What is the meaning of this?"

"It's a cat." Replied John simply.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, bravo, John. Yes, I can see it's a cat. _Why is it in my flat_?"

"First of all, it's _our_ flat. And I thought you could use some cheering up." John was clearly pleased with himself.

Too pleased, in Sherlock's opinion.

Before he could respond with some incredibly clever retort, however, Sherlock quickly had to quickly readjust his posture to save the poor little animal from slipping off the silky material of his shirt as it attempted to navigate the plains of his chest. Grunting, he managed to push himself into a sitting position, turning up his nose in distaste as the small kitten finally slipped off his breast and into his lap, trying and failing to roll itself onto its feet or move around at all, really.

Sherlock extended his long elegant fingers into the kitten's soft fur, lifting it up and holding it at a distance.

John chuckled.

Sherlock's head snapped. "Oh, you find this amusing, do you?"

John only laughed more at the image of a very disgruntled Sherlock holding an innocent kitten at arms' length, as though the animal offended him.

"Actually, the fact that you can't even get along well with a kitten is quite funny, yes."

Thoroughly unimpressed, Sherlock stood and grumpily strode to the kitchen, still holding the baby cat as far away as possible. Quickly examining the kitchen bench, Sherlock placed the kitten in a clean porcelain bowl which was set out for something or other (most likely a recovered participant from one of John's tragic experiments with cooking). Leaving the little kitten to squirm around, Sherlock plucked a mug from the cupboard and filled it with cold tea from the pot.

With that, he marched to his room.

"What're you doing?" John called, who, having rescued the kitten from its porcelain prison, now cradled it.

He received no reply.

_Typical Sherlock_. John rolled his eyes and sat on the now vacated couch, smiling at the tiny fluffy ball of joy in his lap.

* * *

"JOHN!"

John woke with a start. His clock read three o'clock in the morning – why was..?

"_JOHN!_" Ah, so he hadn't dreamt it. Sherlock was actually demanding his presence at _three o'clock in the bloody morning_.

Despite his frustrated annoyance, John pushed himself from his deliciously warm bed and went to Sherlock's door, preparing for any and all sorts of danger.

What he got when he opened the door, however, was certainly not any kind of danger he was familiar with.

Sherlock was lying on his bed, on his back, with his hands folded across his torso. He was glaring.

Well, at least John imagined he was glaring.

It was a bit hard to tell, you see, with the kitten curled up on Sherlock's face.

John grinned. "Yes, Sherlock?"

Sherlock grumbled.

"Sorry, didn't catch that."

"_Ge' ish cah ov mah fiz_."

Despite the overwhelming urge to collapse on the floor and be thoroughly consumed by laughter, John swallowed his amusement and came to the edge of the bed.

It was a bit tricky to determine where the kitten ended and Sherlock began, John noted. The warm grey hue of the little feline was almost identical to that of Sherlock's hair, particularly in the dark lighting of his bedroom. The poor thing seemed to be asleep, happily pillowed upon Sherlock's visage. To avoid being overcome with amusement, John attempted to consider his task as some form of surgery.

That didn't help.

John knelt on the edge of the bed, trying to figure out the best angle from which to extract the creature from Sherlock's face. It was much more difficult than he anticipated. The front paws were wrapped around his chin, with the head resting upon them while the fuzzier undercarriage was resting upon Sherlock's nose and mouth, the tail wrapping around and reaching into his dark curls.

When it started to purr, Sherlock's frustration boiled.

"'_Ohn! Kmuckly!_"

John barely held back a snicker at Sherlock's impaired speech.

"What?"

"_Quickly!_"

Giving up hope of executing this with any sort of neatness, John simply reached for the little cat's sides and plucked it up and off of Sherlock's prominent cheekbones. The little kitten squirmed, then happily rested itself against John's chest as he held it close.

Sherlock gasped, finally able to breathe freely. He reached up a hand and tried to dust off the small kitten hairs from his nose and mouth.

Staring at the ceiling and apparently unaware of John's continued presence at the edge of his bed, Sherlock growled, "Get that thing out of here."

John smiled sadly and made his way to the door.

Before he shut it however, he looked to his friend whose eyes were now shut.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

Just before the door clicked shut, "Goodnight, John."

He closed the door, the little kitten in his arm purring contentedly.

"_Ah-choo!_"

John smiled.

Who would have thought the great Sherlock Holmes allergic to cats?


End file.
